Chapter Eighteen

The battle between Dr. Ramzi and Layla’s mother began early, even if it wasn’t a conflict in the usual sense of the word. Layla’s mother did not dare even to speak in front of her daughter’s betrothed.

When the subject of the engagement party came up for discussion, Dr. Ramzi gave his opinion simply, swiftly, and concisely. He thought it should be “on a small scale”; moreover, the ceremony of the contract signing and the actual wedding should be collapsed into one, scheduled for the summer vacation following Layla’s graduation. Her father concurred. Her mother opened her mouth to say something but closed it without a word. But after Dr. Ramzi’s departure, she did say something. And as usual she put the blame on Layla.

“Now, why did you just sit there like a wretched lump, as if he hadn’t just trampled all over you? Does he think you’re an old spinster who’ll take anything? On a small scale! I might swallow that if the wedding itself was coming up soon, but it’s a year and a half away! Happy the one who lives that long!”

“Okay, okay, Mama. What do you want?”

“I want to celebrate! Don’t I get any joy out of this?”

She was so happy; finally, finally, she had found a bridegroom for her daughter—and one whom she could flaunt in front of her sister. So how could she possibly let this opportunity fizzle, she moaned?

Her sister always had better luck than she did! Her sister had married a judge, while she had married a low-level civil servant in the finance ministry. Then, Gamila had married years before Layla. And what a marriage! A marriage to end all marriages! Such a respectable match, that fetched her the finest clothes and put her in the company of all the best people! Samia Hanim’s children, and Dawlat Hanim’s, were part of Gamila’s set. She went out with them and came in with them. Sidqi, Samia Hanim’s son, and his sister Shushette, were always over at Gamila’s home. Isam, too, of course—and what made him so special?

He had graduated a year ahead of Mahmud, because he was clever and bright and had not wasted an entire year on the war or other such nonsense. Now he was a deputy at the Qasr al-Aini Hospital. Meanwhile, Mahmud was unemployed, having finished his intern year but still waiting for a permanent assignment. He might or might not get an appointment; even if he did, it would be as a general practitioner, not as a deputy like Isam. Moreover, he would certainly not get a place in Cairo but rather would be appointed somewhere out in the provinces. He would live far from her, in exile, while Isam went on living in his mother’s embrace.

And Isam knew the best people and socialized with them, too. Her heart told her that behind Gamila’s social contact with Samia Hanim’s children there was a story. No doubt her sister had her eye on Shushette for Isam. After all, when her sister struck, she always aimed high. She knew her sister so very well.

She herself had requested Mahmud to please be attentive to Shushette, but her son had paid no heed, shown no interest. She was too much like a boy, he had said. He was so thick-headed; he had no sense of what was in his own interest. His fate would be to fall into an unlucky, wretched marriage, she just knew that was what would happen. And there was Isam, so wise to things around him, so sharp. No doubt he was at this very moment hovering around the girl. Otherwise, why did they mix so much? What was the point? And why did Sidqi and Shushette stop by Gamila’s house so often? There must be a secret behind it all. And if a match between Isam and Shushette really did take place, then it just would go to show that her sister’s luck was as high as the skies.

And they were not even willing to give her the chance to celebrate her own daughter’s fortune, as if such a thing was not for her! The grumbling in that household went on for days. Layla’s mother complained to her sister and to her niece, to Isam, to Mahmud, to her husband. She repeated the grievance so often that Layla’s father finally blew up in her face.

“Stop it! That’s enough—we said it would be that way and that’s the way it is going to be.”

She said nothing, but her tears streamed down. Layla gathered her courage and began to broach the subject cautiously with Dr. Ramzi. But he blocked her way immediately.

“Enough, Layla. Is she getting married or are we? We don’t like fusses and large crowds.”

Gamila came to the rescue with a proposal that mollified Layla’s mother. They could hold the engagement party “on a small scale” at home, to satisfy Dr. Ramzi. But then she would throw a grand party at her house to celebrate, inviting all the relatives and friends. It was Layla’s job to convince Dr. Ramzi. She hinted her way round the subject; finally, she tackled it directly, begging Dr. Ramzi to accept Gamila’s proposal. He gave her a long look.

“What is important to me is the way that you see things. Are you persuaded by my perspective, or not?”

“Of course I am. But for Mama’s sake—” Her eyes reflected a pleading urgency: a child’s entreaty, a cherished demand, a father’s reply in the balance.

“All right, Layla,” he said, smiling. But, as if in self-reproach for giving in at a time when he should have been firming up the rules of engagement for their relationship, he added, “But you must understand, Layla, that if this time I gave in, it is for your mother’s sake. I do not expect ever to have to give in again. In the future, my opinion must be yours—one and the same.”

She told him that she understood his position perfectly and respected it, and took a deep breath. She was so ready to be rid of these trivial matters—the engagement, Gamila’s party, everything. She wanted to free herself for him, to be alone with him, to open her heart to him, as he would open his heart to her. Their feelings would become uppermost, and the barrier that separated them would vanish. The professor-student relationship that had brought her into his circuit no longer satisfied her. She wanted to feel that she was his fiancée, his beloved.

Yes, his beloved. Otherwise, why had he proposed? She was not beautiful, not rich, not from a family of great social position; she wasn’t distinguished in any way. So what would cause a man like him to marry a young woman like her, other than love?

Up to this point she had lived in the shadow of his strength; now she craved the shade of his warmth. She dreamed of the day when he would remove the mask that enclosed his emotions toward her, when an effusive, resplendent affection would envelop her—would envelop them together—and would erase the awe she felt for him, and the fear she felt in his presence. She longed to feel that she was not merely accepted as a person but also loved as a woman, and desired. This longing kept her awake at night, although in the days preceding the formal engagement announcement there was much to distract her from it.

The house hummed with people; wherever she turned, Layla saw faces dear to her heart: her mother, her aunt, Gamila, and sometimes Mahmud. Her brother’s term of residence at the hospital as an intern had ended, and he was living at home again while he awaited his appointment. If he spent most of his time out, the moment he came home life seemed to erupt everywhere in the apartment, as if a freshening breeze had blown in with him—as if he were so happy that his joy must overflow into the lives of others. For he seemed very happy indeed; he was barely capable of staying still, like a foaming fountain, or like the bubbles rising to the surface of soda water. He would breeze in to give Layla an affectionate kiss, or fling his arms exuberantly round his mother, or pat his aunt breezily on the shoulder. He would praise Gamila’s taste in clothes. And whenever he looked in the direction of Sanaa, the bubbles would disappear, the eyes would deepen, the lips would soften, all concentrated into a long, deep gaze, weighted by his overpowering feelings. Then the bubbles would stream out again, and Sanaa would drop her eyelids as if she were under the irresistible influence of a powerful drug.

Didn’t Sanaa worry that people would notice her? Layla asked herself. And how did she know when Mahmud was going to be at home? He must be calling her on the telephone, and they must be meeting outside the house. But how? For Sanaa was watched very, very closely. How did she manage to escape that strict observation? Sanaa was playing with fire, thought Layla. The flames must inevitably burn her, and Mahmud, too.

It was clear, though, that they found fire to their liking. Mahmud, utterly happy, seemed reborn: he seemed stronger, more manly, more handsome, more confident in himself and in the future. And Sanaa did not even touch ground in her daily life; she was flying. They had become bolder and more confident these days, as if they had agreed on a specific step—one that would demand all the audacity they could muster. They were so bold that it could not possibly escape Gamila’s searching eyes. Nothing could get by those eyes now.

Over the past three years Gamila had changed startlingly; sometimes her transformation seemed hard to believe. The young, unstudied, impulsive girl had become a mature, clever, practical, and extremely worldly-wise woman. Her figure had filled out, and her curvaceous body moved with stately elegance. That handsome face was steady on a long, white, slender neck, no longer dancing about, turning this way and that like the whirlwind that Gamila had once been, so like Mahmud’s impetuous energy. The jet-black plaits now circled that placid white brow proudly, all strands carefully in place, as if drawn by an artist’s brush. Those lustrous eyes that had flickered and shone like a pure spring now had a gaze that was hard, cold, and intrepid. The shy grin had become a carefully sketched, studied smile. Gamila appeared more like a breathtakingly beautiful marble statue than a live, warm human being; but below the tranquil surface simmered fire. Those veiled flames were the sort that kindle men’s desires, provoked further by a tranquil surface that fueled their sense of masculine contest, a trial of strength against this beautiful woman who was perfectly aware of her appeal. Confident of drawing any man she had the slightest desire to attract, Gamila enjoyed every moment she spent at every party she attended. But she returned home from her evenings out to an engulfing depression as she passed her husband’s closed door and his snoring reached her ears. She would stretch out in her own bed and dream that she was once again seventeen years old, still young, still unmarried, and in love. With whom? Someone who was not any of the men she met at her parties. They passed time pleasantly enough, those men, as she did, no more and no less. But flirtations were not what she wanted. She longed for a profound love, a quiet, true love that would not encase her in a heated battle but enfold her in a tender peacefulness.

When Gamila learned that Layla was about to become engaged, her eyes clouded with anxiety and she quickly found an opportunity to be alone with Layla in her room. She asked immediately, “You love Ramzi, Layla, right?

Layla nodded. The worry faded from Gamila’s face and her frame relaxed as she let out a short, nervous laugh. “I knew as much. All your life you’ve been wiser than me. You waited until somebody came along who loved you and whom you loved.”

Layla leaned over to Gamila and seized her hand. “And you—you’re happy too, in your marriage, aren’t you, Gamila?” A sad look came into Gamila’s eyes but it soon disappeared. She stood up. At the window she turned. Layla could see her profile; the usual cold, hard expression had returned.

“Ask Mama, she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you the kind of happiness I have.” She turned to face Layla. “In any case, we are on the subject of you at the moment. We have to give this some thought. What shall we do for the party?” She was very involved in the subject of Layla’s engagement, in the party, in all of the details. She was dropping by to see Layla almost every day. Her perfume would announce her entrance; as she sailed in, wearing her stunningly simple, luxurious, perfectly composed outfits, everyone would sigh in relief. Now they could turn everything over to her. She was the one who knew everything; she made the suggestions, and then she it was who arranged things, seemingly without any complication or confusion, as if she had been mounting weddings and engagement parties all her life. In the beginning she usually came in the company of her husband, but soon she started coming by herself.

“Well, where is Ali Bey?” her mother would ask.

Gamila would shrug. “If I bring him, what will he do? Sleep, like he did yesterday?”

Layla held back her laughter as the image of Ali Bey came into her mind, a body draped over the sofa, more or less filling it, his head dropped onto his shoulder, his mouth open, his breathing successively louder and louder until he was snoring, the fat gold watch chain hanging massively down as far as his paunch.

“No,” said Gamila’s mother. “It’s not right, Gamila. Aren’t we his relatives?” Gamila shrugged her words off. “By the way,” she said to Layla, “Isam apologizes for not being here. He’s coming by tomorrow to congratulate you.”

Layla had been uneasy at Isam’s silence. She wanted to see him, to make sure that he bore no feelings of bitterness and to show him that she had none either, as if she wanted to clear all outstanding matters before she became officially engaged.

*

Isam came to their home with Sidqi. They had become inseparable companions. Seeing them together Layla smiled, recollecting Gamila’s engagement party. Isam had wanted to choke her merely because Sidqi had spoken to her. Isam noticed her smile and understood immediately. When a seat next to her was vacated he sat down and said, smiling, “What were you chortling about?”

“So, you’ve become friends, you and Sidqi!”

Isam laughed. “Do you remember?”

“Like children playing, weren’t we?”

Isam didn’t answer. Layla noticed Sidqi whispering something into Gamila’s ear. Her cousin blew cigarette smoke straight into his face and laughed, a series of curt, broken sounds. Isam raised his face to Layla and smiled, but shamefacedly this time. “You know, Layla, what I’m planning to do when I get married?”

Layla looked at him questioningly.

“The first daughter I have, I’m going to name Layla, after you.”

Layla felt embarrassed. She was so inconsequential, so paltry. Isam, for whom she had felt so much contempt, seemed a better and more courageous person than she was. Isam had no wish to conceal or deny true feelings that had once filled his heart. Those feelings had gone, but he still preserved them in his heart as a beautiful thing of which he was proud. She, on the other hand, had been suppressing and denying emotions that had once filled her with happiness. Harshly, meanly, she had labeled them “childish play.”

Whom was she trying to please by denying those sentiments? Herself? Ramzi? Layla could not continue her line of thought. Gamila interrupted it, clapping her hands. “Come on, will the men please leave. Women, we have work to do.”

Isam stood up, but Sidqi did not move from his seat. Elegant, attractive, handsome, bold, he was attacking Gamila with his eyes, as she sat beside him. Before he would leave, Sidqi teased her. He just loved women’s work, he said. But Isam dragged him out by the hand, laughing.

Gamila began to outline the details of the party she was planning to give for Layla. Their discussion came to center on what Layla would wear. When Layla mentioned the material she wanted, Gamila objected. It was the pattern that determined the material, she said firmly. In front of everyone, she announced that the party dress would be her gift to Layla on the occasion of her engagement.

The next day, Gamila took Layla to her seamstress. “I want the best thing you have, madame,” she said.

“Something spécial, madame?” smiled the seamstress, alluding to the high cost of the dress she would present for their inspection. Gamila said stubbornly, “I told you, the best.” She showed them a “model in gauze” that she described as a Christian Dior design. Layla and Gamila stood before it, stunned speechless. The seamstress spoke again, in French. “That is no pattern, ma cherie—that is a dream.”

She was not stretching the truth. Layla had never seen anything prettier in her life, not even at the cinema. She could almost picture herself in this dress of white chiffon. No doubt it would make her loads prettier than she was now. Then, no doubt, Ramzi would think her pretty.

But her face tensed. “Do you have anything else, madame?”

“Are you crazy, Layla?” asked Gamila in astonishment. “Can there be anything more lovely than that?”

“I want something with a higher neckline.”

The seamstress shrugged disdainfully. “Non! A high-necked cocktail dress?”

Layla was silent. Gamila begged the seamstress, who refused stubbornly, and said in French, disparagingly, “I am an artiste, not a seamstress. I do not make high-necked cocktail dresses.”

Gamila sat in her car, her body rigid, tears of anger glinting in her eyes. Layla patted her thigh gently. “I’m sorry, Gamila.”

Gamila made no response. Layla leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Gamila turned to her and said furiously, “I just want to understand, that’s all. Why do you want to keep yourself all buttoned up? All your life you have worn things that are open.”

“Because, well, because Ramzi doesn’t like them open.”

“He can go to hell, my dear. So men think they have something to say about what women wear now, too?”

“I can’t, Gamila.”

Gamila leaned over to Layla and spoke slowly. “Indulge me, Layla. Look, I have more experience of the world than you do. When a woman goes down on her knees from day one, the man will just climb on top of her and ride her hard with his legs firmly on either side.”

Layla felt a sharp pang in her heart. She realized suddenly that what Gamila was warning her against had already happened. But, whether or not it had, the dress had to be very modest. Otherwise, Ramzi would not accept it.

Her aunt made a dress for her to wear for her engagement. It had a very high neckline.

Layla stood before the mirror. Her aunt was putting the final tucks into place. “It’s gorgeous, sweetheart, absolutely gorgeous.” She stepped back. She narrowed her gaze as she studied the dress from a distance, and laughed abruptly.

“Layla, do you know what your dress has turned out like?”

Layla turned her head. “Like what, Aunt Gamila?”

“Like Gamila’s wedding dress, except this one has a closed bodice and hers was low cut. Exactly, though—same cut, same lines, same material.”

Layla’s eyes blurred. She saw Gamila standing on the roof, on the day of the Cairo fire, her back to the skies, still as a statue in her white dress, the masses of thick, acrid smoke surrounding her like a frame. Husayn’s voice echoed in her ears. “This is not the end, Layla. Believe me, this is not the end.” Layla turned to her aunt and said in a feeble voice, “Are we finished?”